


29 Day Whump Challenge

by sableflynn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Beating, Broken Bones, Burns, Dehumanization, Dehydration, Drowning, Forced to Serve, Forced to Watch, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Starvation, Strangulation, Torture, Whump, dislocation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sableflynn/pseuds/sableflynn
Summary: Going to attempt to write a quick one-shot for every day of February, based off this prompt list: https://yuckwhump.tumblr.com/post/190405149090/29-day-whump-challenge-ive-put-together-a-list-of . I might not get to it every day, but I hope to do some of it at least! Some of these will also apply to my Bad Things Happen Bingo Card.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Feb-Whump-Ary





	1. Dehydration

At first, her sleep-groggy brain couldn't fully process what she was seeing. The sand around her pack was damp from where the water had slowly leaked out all night, now rapidly drying as the sun began to beat down. She fell to her knees and dug into the ground, grabbing clumps of wet sand as if she could somehow draw the water out from it and back into her pack.   
  
_I'm going to die out here._ She was still two days' travel from the meeting point, and there was nothing in between except the barren, desolate road and a few long-abandoned desert outposts. The sun had barely risen and it was already stiflingly hot. Between the dry heat, the relentless sun, and the exertion of following the winding road, she wasn’t sure she could even make it a day without water. If she passed out, no one would find her, and she would die.   
  
_I can’t die out here._ There was more on the line that just her own life. They were counting on her to make this delivery; people would die without it. There was nothing to do but continue walking. _I’m just going to walk, and walk, and not stop until I get there._ And so she pulled a veil over her head, shut her mind off, and began to walk.  
  
The sun climbed, and she could already feel exhaustion setting in. _Keep walking, keep walking._ Sweat rolled down her face, stinging her eyes. _Ignore it. Keep moving._ She could already feel the beginning of a headache setting in, a dull pain that shifted as she tilted her head one way or the other. _Keep going. If you stop you won’t get up and then you’re dead._  
  
Around midday, she came across the first abandoned outpost. Once, it would have been full of travelers from all corners of the desert, trading supplies and stories as they sheltered from the brutal heat. Now, the few buildings that still stood were decrepit and weatherworn. She stepped inside one, blinking to adjust her eyes to the dim light. The air inside was hot and stuffy, and there was no water. _Maybe I could stay in here just a bit, until the worst of the day has passed…_ She swayed slightly on her feet and held the door frame for support. _No. If I stop I won’t get up and then I’m dead._  
  
She passed a few more outposts after that, but never lingered long after checking if, by some miracle, someone had left water in one of the buildings. The sun has passed its peak and was now sending long shadows slanting across the sand. She tried to focus on those shadows and not on how dry her mouth felt, the cramping in her legs, the headache that had grown into a steady pound. _Just keep moving._ The ground seemed to waver in front of her. She lifted her hand and stared at the skin around her nails already beginning to crack from dehydration. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.   
  
The setting sun brought little relief. In winter, desert nights could get notoriously cold, but it was the height of summer and the heat remained long after night broke. Normally, she would set up camp for the night when it got dark enough that she struggled to see the road in front of her. _If I stop now, I won’t be able to make myself move again in the morning._ So she continued to stumble forward, her feet catching on loose rocks and slippery patches of sand. Her feet felt so heavy she could barely lift them to continue walking. She tilted her head up to the sky, the relentless pounding her head shifting with the movement, and traced the patterns of the stars with bleary eyes.  
  
At first, she thought the bright spot of light in the distance was another star, somehow fallen to earth. _Or is that the sky?_ She wasn’t sure anymore where the earth ended and the sky began. She blinked, expecting the light to vanish, but it remained. Something broke through the haze that was her aching head. _It’s a fire. Fire means people._  
  
With no other landmarks, it was impossible for her to judge how far away the fire was. She pinned her eyes on it, terrified that if she looked away it would be gone. Every muscle in her body ached, her mouth was dry as the desert sands, and her head was agony. _I’m close. Keep going._ She didn’t even have the strength to lift her feet anymore, instead dragging them along the road at a sluggish pace. Slowly, so slowly, the fire began to grow bigger, and she could hear sounds. _Voices._ She smelled the smoke from the fire and in a fit of desperation forced her body to break into a run.   
  
Immediately, her foot caught on a rock and she sprawled to the ground. She curled into herself for a moment, head spinning. _No. I’m so close._ She moved to push herself back to standing, but her arms shook beneath her and she collapsed again. _No. Keep moving._ She began to drag herself forward, the sand and rocks digging into her arms as she pulled herself across the ground. She was so close she could see figures moving around the fire, _people,_ but out of the fire’s range she was still hidden in the darkness. _Just a bit closer._ She was shaking with the effort of moving, shivering despite the heat of the night.   
  
“Hey, do you see something moving over there?”   
  
Weakly, she lifted her head. The figures around the fire had stopped moving and were turned in her direction. One pointed her way.   
  
“Is that a person?”  
  
“Who the hell is out here alone in the middle of the night?”   
  
Two figures approached, their features shifting with the light of the fire and the dark of the night. She lifted one hand in an attempt at a greeting.   
  
One crouched next to her. “Hey, are you ok? What happened to you?” His hands were gentle as he tried to help her up. “Someone go grab her some water!” She took his offered hand, struggling to her feet. “Hey, it’s ok,” he said. “You’re safe here.” She swayed on her feet, opening her mouth in an effort to say something, but nothing came out. Exhaustion overcame her and she sank into unconsciousness. 


	2. Broken Bone

“Listen, you need to let me set it or it’s gonna heal all wrong.”  
  
“I’m fine, don’t touch it!”  
  
“You’re not _fine_ , dumbass, your nose is broken!” Darya snapped, trying to pull him closer for a better look. “At least let me see it--”  
  
“Nope! I’m good!” Marcus backed away frantically, trying to wipe away the blood that dripped from his nose and swearing as his hand bumped up against the injury.   
  
“Does it hurt?”  
  
“Of course it hurts, my fucking nose is broken!”  
  
“Then let me fix it!”   
  
“But that’ll hurt too!” He dabbed at the blood with his shirt, uttering another soft _fuck_ at the pain. “I’m just gonna wait for a healer. Or someone who knows what they’re doing.”  
  
“I know what I’m doing!” She looked downright offended. “And if we don’t get it fixed, it’ll heal all crooked and you’ll look like this forever.”  
  
“But doesn’t it make me look kind of badass?” He lowered his shirt and gave what he surely thought was a charming grin. Blood was still dripping down his face.  
  
“No. It makes you look like a dumbass who was too stubborn to let someone help you with your _fucking broken nose!_ ”   
  
“You of all people _cannot_ lecture me on stubbornness,” he said, but he moved closer and allowed Darya to examine his nose with surprisingly gentle fingers.   
  
“Hey Marcus, remember that time we tried to make a birthday cake for Kailo, but you fucked up the recipe and it just exploded in the oven?” She placed her hands on both sides of his nose.  
  
“Excuse me, it was definitely you who fucked up the recipe, and anyway it still— _FUCK!_ ” He jerked back as she wrenched his nose into place, hands flying up to push her away. “ _Warn_ me before you do that!”   
  
“If I warned you, you would’ve tensed up and it would hurt worse.” She grinned at him. “But look! It’s all better now. You’re welcome.”   
  
“Yeah, whatever, thanks.” Despite his tone, he returned her smile. "Let's just get out of here already." 


	3. Drugged

Felicia took a long drink from the coffee, her eyes never leaving the two men at the table with her. She knew how this would go. They would enjoy their post-dinner coffee and make small talk for a while, and eventually Volkan would offer to show his guest what he had been working on lately. Then they would tie her down and torture her. She could almost convince herself that the routine of it no longer terrified her.   
  
But something felt different tonight. It was subtle, but she could feel it in the way Volkan’s gaze kept turning back to her even as he chatted away with his guest. His eyes predatory, expectant. He was waiting for something.  
  
It started as the slightest tingling in her fingers, a feeling she could almost ignore if every nerve of her body wasn’t already on high alert. She set her cup down and lifted one hand to her face, moving her fingers experimentally. The movements were jerky, delayed. Holding her hand up seemed to take more and more effort. She looked up, and realized both men were watching her.  
  
“What did you do?” She whispered, her tongue heavy and awkward in her mouth. Her heart was hammering, blood rushing through her veins. She swore she could feel whatever drug Volkan had slipped her spreading throughout her body, weakening her muscles.  
  
Volkan took a sip of his own coffee, eyes bright with amusement. “Our guest tonight prefers you unable to fight back.” His tone was matter-of-fact, infuriating.   
  
Felicia turned to the other man, their _guest_ , who had the gall to look apologetic. “At least we won’t have to tie you down this way,” he said with a self-effacing shrug. “Honestly, this will be easier for all of us.”  
  
_No._ She knew what they were going to do, had lost track of how many times different guests had come in to hurt her. She was resigned to it. But for them to drug her, paralyze her, take away the last measure of dignity she had for herself—if they were going to just hurt her and hurt her and not allow her to even make a token attempt at fighting back and the overwhelming crush of everything he had put her through was going to smother her—  
  
She wrenched herself back from the table, clumsy hands knocking over her coffee cup. Ignoring the men’s laughter and her own spinning head, she ran for the door, overcome with the need to be _away_. She didn’t make it five steps before her legs collapsed beneath her and she slammed to the ground, the breath knocked from her.   
  
Volkan crouched beside her, lifting her into his arms with a deceptive gentleness. She felt like a doll in his arms. He shushed her, brushing her hair back from her face, and she couldn’t even open her mouth to protest. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, carrying her limp body back to the table. “You’ll still be able to feel every last thing we do to you tonight.” 


	4. Beaten

Darya’s blood was racing as the man approached her. She could sense the fight in him, could see it in the way his eyes darted across her and around the alleyway, his muscles tensing. He was on the offensive, and she welcomed it. It had been too long since she had a good brawl.  
  
“You’ve been sticking your nose where it don’t belong,” he growled, as if she hadn’t heard that tired line a million times before. They always went for intimidation first, and they were never very creative about it. “It’s time to teach you a lesson.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Are you gonna talk like that the whole time?” She shifted her stance slightly, bracing for the attack she knew was coming, eyes tracking his every movement.   
  
He looked _pissed_ at that. Ooh, he was a touchy one. “You’re gonna regret messing with us,” he spat, lunging forward with a punch at her head.  
  
She stepped to the side and followed up with her own punch, taking him in the ribs. Before he could recover, she aimed a kick for his legs, but he stumbled back to avoid it. She continued on the offensive, reveling in that look in his eyes, the look that said _shit shit shit I have seriously misjudged this situation_.   
  
His eyes glancing quickly over her shoulder was the only warning she got, but it was enough. She whirled around, catching the blow from the newcomer before it took her in the face. Fuck, of course he had a friend. Honestly, that was good. Two against one always made things more exciting.   
  
She felt _alive_ , dodging and weaving around the two of them, landing hits where she could, slowly wearing them down. They were clumsy to begin with and making more mistakes as they grew more impatient and she was having _so much fun_ and—  
  
Something cracked against the back of her skull, sending her reeling forward.   
  
Immediately, hands were wrenching her arms back and pulling her to standing. She blinked the stars from her eyes and realized the two men from before were standing in front of her, while a third held her up from behind. Shit. They had just been biding their time until their other fucking friend could get the drop on her. Stupid, _stupid_ , she should’ve seen this coming.   
  
“Three against one?” She snarled at them, trying to gauge the situation. “You’re really that scared of me?” With her last word, she dropped all her weight, sweeping out her leg at the man behind her. For a second she was free, and she sprang forward, racing for the street beyond the alleyway. Then a hand snarled in the back of her shirt, pulling her off-balance, and a fist drove into her stomach. She buckled over, gasping for air. They didn’t give her a chance to breathe before someone kicked her in the chest and she landed hard on her back.  
  
The first man straddled her, hands wrapping around her throat. Furious, she threw a punch at his face, connecting with his nose. He howled, and she threw her weight against him in a desperate bid to throw him off, but then one of the other men pinned down her wrists above her, and the first stared down at her with murderous rage in his eyes.   
  
“Just—fucking—” He punctuated each word with a vicious punch across her face. “Stay—down—” Her nose was bleeding, broken probably, and she was having trouble focusing. The punches weren’t stopping. She struggled weakly against the man holding her down, and wondered if they were planning on killing her right there.   
  
Instead, they stood up abruptly, releasing her. She struggled to a sitting position, but one of them kicked her across the chest again, and she collapsed back down.   
  
“Consider this your last warning.” Sharp kicks at her ribs, her stomach, her hips, and she curled into herself, focusing on drawing in ragged breaths. She heard one of them laugh above her. “If you try anything again, we’ll fucking kill you.”   
  
They gave one final kick, and she felt something crack inside of her. Her breath came out in a hiss of pain. She refused to scream for them. _You didn’t kill me, fuckers._ She turned her head to watch as they walked away, their smugly satisfied faces clearly visible in the glancing lamplight. _That was your first mistake._


	5. Drowning

Kailo had spent his entire life around water. He learned to swim before he could walk. He grew up diving and exploring the reefs that surrounded his home. He could hold his breath for a _long_ time.   
  
He hoped it would be long enough.   
  
"I think we'll start with two minutes," the woman said from behind him, one hand holding his curls in an iron grip. He was kneeling with his hands tied behind him, his face inches from the vat of water.   
  
Two minutes was fine. He'd regularly gone diving for longer than that, growing up. This really wouldn't be any different. At least she wasn't cutting him again.   
  
Her grip in his hair tightened, and her face drew closer to his. "Unless you'd like to start talking now." Her voice was a whisper against his ear. "Tell me what I need to know, and we can skip this entire song and dance."   
  
He swallowed, shaking his head frantically. “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please, _please_ , I—”   
  
She cut him off. “Two minutes it is, then.” Kailo managed to take a deep breath just before she forced his head under the water.  
  
The icy shock of it nearly drove the breath out of him. He shut his eyes and willed himself to relax. _This is just like diving back home. I know I can do this._ He was drifting in the water, trusting the waves to carry him to where he needed to be. It didn’t even feel cold anymore; it felt like the warm oceans of his home, embracing him like a mother’s love, sheltering him—  
  
A fist slammed into his side and forced all the breath from him and he woke into a nightmare. All at once he felt the throbbing pain of every bruise and cut that woman had given him over the past several hours, and above it all, the absolutely consuming desperate _burn_ in his lungs for air. He thrashed under her, his mouth opening to scream but then the water rushed in and he was trying to suck in lungfuls of air but there was only water and it was cold enough to freeze his heart and he couldn’t stop it and he was dying, drowning, she was going to kill him right here and _he just wanted to see his friends again_ —  
  
She dragged his head from the water. He began coughing immediately, his muscles seizing as water streamed from his mouth and nose. His first real breath came out as a shuddering sob. He tried to speak, to beg, but every time he tried he was overcome with more wet, rasping coughs.   
  
“Do you remember what you have to tell me now?” She asked, her tone deceptively gentle. “Or should we try for three minutes this time?”   
  
“Plea—” He choked on his words and coughed up more water. “I-I swear, I don’t know, please, please stop—” His body was wracked with pained sobs. _I can’t tell her. They’re coming for me soon. I can’t tell her anything. I just need to hold out until they get here._  
  
 _Please, please hurry._


	6. Tortured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: the POV character in this chapter is vaguely a minor (mid-teens ish). She is not hurt in the chapter, but there are elements of nonsexual child grooming.

Amalia stared down at the man tied to the chair before her, a knife clutched in one hand. Her palms were sweating. The man held her gaze with unblinking eyes, his chin tilted slightly up. She looked into those eyes and saw the play of emotions there; his anger, his defiance and pride, and under all those, the slowly blooming fear as the helplessness of his situation dawned on his mind.   
  
She had seen all those emotions before in so many people, when Mr. Davids brought her in to observe his work. This man was so _expressive_ , though. He hadn’t said a single word, but his eyes reminded her of— _Stop it. You don’t have a brother. Do your job._  
  
Swallowing, she turned to Mr. Davids, who was leaning against the back wall of the small room. “What information am I trying to get from him?” She asked, feeling proud that she had kept the tremor out of her voice.   
  
The man spoke up for the first time. “You getting children to do your dirty work now, Davids? Seems like a new low, even for you.”  
  
Mr. Davids gave a low chuckle at that, but didn’t take his eyes off Amalia. “Oh, I’m sure he has a wealth of fascinating information about his little operation...but that’s not what I’m interested in right now.” A smile spread slowly on his face, warm, paternal. “This is for _you_ , Amalia. A chance to practice the skills you’ve been observing for so long. A blank slate for you to begin developing your own personal technique. So yes, he might talk, and he might even say something useful, but I’m really looking forward to seeing how _you_ perform.”  
  
She nodded, standing a little straighter as she turned back to the man in the chair. His eyes were wide, but he seemed less afraid, somehow. His brows furrowed and he frowned slightly. Before Amalia could decide where to start, he spoke again.  
  
“Listen, kid...you don’t have to do this.” His tone was gentle, almost...sympathetic? “I don’t know what lies he’s been feeding you, but you don’t have to torture people for this scumbag.”  
  
Anger boiled within her. “I’m not a _kid_ ,” she hissed. “And I’m not doing this because I _have_ to. Mr. Davids saved me—”  
  
“ _He’s using you._ ” The man leaned forward as much as the ropes binding him allowed. “He’s training you to be his perfect little torture puppet. Listen, I can help you. I know people who can get you out—”  
  
She flew at him, wrenching his head back by the hair like she’d seen Mr. Davids do so many times before. “I don’t need _help_ ,” she snarled, her other hand bringing the knife up to his throat. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. “I know what I’m doing, and you— you—”  
  
“Amalia.” Mr. Davids stepped away from the wall, walking over to place a warm hand on her shoulder. “Relax. Remember that you are the one in control here.” Gently, his hands took hers and eased the knife away from the man’s throat. “When you are in this room and a person is tied to that chair before you, you have all the power. His words can’t hurt you.”  
  
_His words can’t hurt me._ Amalia calmed her breathing, stilled her shaking hands, quieted her racing thoughts. _I am in control. I get to make the choices here._ She looked into the man’s eyes, which were now flickering between her and Mr. Davids. Assessing the threat level.  
  
She would show him who he should be afraid of.  
  
She raised the knife again, but this time brought it to his shoulder. She pressed slowly, feeling the pressure of the skin, the way it split under the blade of the knife. The man grit his teeth and let out a hiss of pain, and she felt a small thrill of victory, and a growing unease, a feeling she forced out of her mind. She dragged the blade down his arm, concentrating on the bright stripe of blood that it left in its wake.   
  
“Good job, Amalia,” Mr. Davids murmured behind her. “This is how you take control.” Lifting the knife from the man’s arm, Amalia moved to his other side. _This is how I take control._


	7. Forced to Serve

“Felicia, dear, come cut my steak for me.”  
  
She looked up from her own plate in surprise to find Volkan watching her with a lazy smile. The rest of the table stirred with the clink of silverware—this was a much larger party than usual, he had several guests over tonight—but Volkan hadn’t touched his food yet.   
  
Unnerved, she took a moment to reply. “You want me to...what?”  
  
“I said,” he repeated, slowly, patiently, “come cut my steak for me.” A few of the other guests were watching them now, and she thought she heard someone snicker behind her. Ignoring her growing unease, she pushed her chair away from the table and walked over to where Volkan sat.   
  
He placed a hand on the small of her back as she stood over him, picking up his fork and knife. She turned the knife over in her hand, its serrated edge catching the glint of candlelight. It was heavy, and solid, and sharp, so sharp.   
  
Her eyes slowly drifted back to Volkan. His head was tilted up slightly to look at her, exposing his neck. He looked vulnerable. Harmless, even. His eyes were shining in the dim light. “Go ahead,” he said, still with that easy smile on his face. A challenge.  
  
The knife felt like a hot poker in her hand and he was close, so close, and if she were strong she could end this all before he would even have time to react.   
  
She wasn’t strong.  
  
She began cutting the steak, the harsh sound of the knife scraping the plate echoing through the dining room. The other guests had become silent, all watching this exchange play out. Volkan’s hand was still on her back, and his thumb began rubbing small circles that made her tense up in automatic fear.   
  
She finished and returned to her seat without another word, unable to shake the feeling that she had given up another small piece of herself to him.   
  
He took a sip of his wine, savoring her discomfort. “You see, she’s good,” he said, addressing his guests now. “She understands her place here.” She stared at her untouched plate of food, face burning, her mind succumbing to the thought that he might be right. 


	8. Strangulation

“I’m sick of hearing your voice,” the man snapped, gripping Marcus’s chin with bruising fingers. Marcus wrenched his head to the side, wrists straining at the ropes holding him to the wall.   
  
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you brought me here, dumbass,” Marcus spat. “I’m _so_ fucking sorry if my voice inconveniences you—”  
  
His words were cut off with a choke as the man slammed both hands around his throat, squeezing. Marcus thrashed against the grip. His lungs were screaming for air, his heart hammering. The hands were locked around his throat like iron, and he could already feel himself fading under the relentless crush.  
  
Slowly, savoring every choked gasp from Marcus, the man leaned in close. “Stop talking.” He released his grip and stepped back.  
  
Marcus sucked in a desperate breath that immediately turned into a cough. Trembling slightly, he glared up at the man from beneath the sweat-soaked hair that had fallen into his face. “Did that feel good, fucker?” he growled. “Did that make you feel like you’re in control—”  
  
Caught mid-sentence, Marcus didn’t have a chance to catch a breath before the man stepped forward and began choking the life from him again. Thumbs pressed into his throat, harder, harder, crushing. He bucked in an attempt to throw the hands off, but the man laughed and crowded closer.   
  
Marcus’s struggles were growing weaker. His vision was fading; his entire world was the man in front of him, and the hands around his throat, and the agony that was his desperate lungs. _I can’t pass out. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if I pass out._ But his head was spinning now, his eyelids fluttering.   
  
The man released him a second time. Marcus’s throat was on fire, but he could breathe. His body shook with the coughs, ribs aching, eyes watering. He hung limp from the ropes. He hadn’t stopped coughing before the man returned one hand to his neck, a thumb lightly stroking down the front of his throat.   
  
“Stop talking.” The man pressed his thumb in harder, a warning. “I can do this all day, boy.”  
  
Marcus lifted his chin, looked the man in the eye. “So can I.” He snatched one final breath before the man’s hands wrapped around his throat once again. 


	9. Starvation

It had been easy the first day. The man had come into their shared cell with a plate of steaming rice and vegetables, and told her that she could take the food, and he would take her brother from the cell and torture him. Or she could pass on the food, and he would take her brother out and feed him in her place.  
  
That was no choice at all, so Amalia turned down the food, and Marcus left in manacles with the man to have a meal. She paced the cell, checking every corner for a way out, her mind a whirl. What if the man had lied and was torturing Marcus right now, _stupid_ , she should have tried to bargain with him somehow. But the man held all the power and they all knew it, and the best she could hope for was that he kept his word.   
  
They returned several hours later, and Marcus didn’t look visibly hurt but she still wasn’t satisfied until he assured her that no, he really was fine. The man had given him a full meal and then allowed him to sit by the fire for a few hours. He hadn’t even asked him any questions about who they were. She nodded and decided the gnawing hunger in her stomach was worth it.  
  
The gnawing had become a clawing pain by morning, when the man returned with the same offer. Again, she waved the food away, and Marcus left with the man to be safe for another day. Amalia sat against the wall, conserving her strength. She studied the dim cell with tired eyes, as if a hidden exit she had missed the other day would reveal itself to her. As the hours stretched on, she sank further into exhaustion, until she was counting her breaths and trying to ignore the feeling that her body was beginning to eat itself.  
  
Marcus returned that evening, again evidently unharmed. They slept that night wrapped in each other’s arms like they used to as kids, and she shivered despite the damp warmth of the cell. After she turned down the food and he left on the third day, she curled into herself, unable to do more than tremble on the ground.   
  
That evening, Marcus returned with a black eye and bruises covering his body.  
  
Amalia shot to her feet. “What the _fuck_ did you do to him—” But then the world spun around her and her vision went white and there was a roaring in her ears, and she could feel herself falling, until strong arms caught her.   
  
“Ami.” Marcus’s voice, and his arms gently lowering her to the ground. She blinked until her vision returned, and saw the man watching them from the doorway.   
  
“He tried to sneak some food back,” the man said with a shrug. “So I had to beat him for it. And then he tried to argue and fight back, so I had to beat him more.”  
  
Amalia swayed where she sat, and opened her mouth to argue, but the man had already vanished once again. She turned to Marcus, her head spinning from the slight movement. She needed to check him for injuries, but her mind was in a fog. “Did he break anything? That piece of shit, he said you’d be safe…”  
  
“Ami, listen to me.” Marcus took her hands and stared into her eyes. “You need to take the food tomorrow.”  
  
His eyes were full of concern; she glanced down to avoid looking at them. “I can’t. You heard him. He’ll torture you.”  
  
“That’s fine. I can take one day of that, but Amalia, you can’t even stand without passing out. _Please_.”  
  
She winced at the pain in his voice. It had only been a few days, she shouldn’t be this _weak_. She’d been through worse; she’d put other people through worse. “Marcus, I…” Now she lifted her eyes to look at him again, searching for the words she wanted. “I can’t be the reason you get hurt. Not again.”   
  
“ _Amalia_ ,” and now the pain in his voice was thickened with frustration, desperation, “Listen to me. We are going to get out of here, and we’re doing it _together_. I am not leaving without you, but we’re not going to get anywhere if you can’t even move without fainting. So I need you to get over your fucking _self-loathing_ for two seconds and take the goddamn food so we can figure out how to tear this place down.”  
  
Amalia realized her mouth was hanging open and she promptly shut it. Marcus’s expression softened. “Ami, I’m sorry, I—”  
  
“You’re right.” _Damn, why was he always right?_ “Fuck. Ok. When he...when he takes you tomorrow, just fuck with him as much as you can. Please?”  
  
Marcus grinned, and it almost hid the fear in his eyes. “I’ll make him regret ever taking us.”  
  
The man arrived the next morning, and this time Amalia accepted the food. He raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing, instead locking Marcus’s arms behind him once again and marching him out of the cell. Marcus turned for a last look back at Amalia, giving her a soft smile. She returned the smile, then looked at the food before her. A plate of rice and vegetables, in exchange for a day of torment for her brother. She took the first bite, and the food tasted of ashes in her mouth.


	10. Dislocation

Felicia let out a sharp cry as she was dumped unceremoniously back into the cell, nearly blacking out from the pain when her shoulder slammed against the harsh stone floor. For a moment she lay still and counted her shuddering, sobbing breaths. Her shoulder throbbed with agony and burned even against the cold ground.   
  
“Felicia, oh my god…” Elyse’s voice was a whisper as she crouched next to Felicia, hands hovering over her body like she wasn’t sure where it was safe to touch. “What did they—I mean, oh god, I’m so sorry…” Her hands finally settled to brush the damp hair back from Felicia’s face.   
  
Leaning into the gentle touch, Felicia managed to pull herself to sitting. “They…” _They had a party. Elegant dresses, sparkling champagne, and Felicia in the middle of the room like a centerpiece. Forced to stand with her arms chained behind her, pulled taut at a painful angle. Unable to move as the guests milled around her, touched her, laughed as they made her drink from their glasses. The guests becoming bolder as the night went on, pulling the chains higher and higher until her arms were wrenched out of place. Delighting in her cries of pain._ Felicia swallowed back the bile, licked her lips to answer. “My shoulder’s dislocated.”  
  
It was already swollen and deformed and painful in a way that eclipsed all her other injuries. She knew it needed to be taken care of _now_ or it would get so much worse. But their captors had returned upstairs to continue the party after dropping her in the cell, and she knew better than to expect any sort of care from them.   
  
“Elyse,” she said, voice tight with pain. “I need you to help me fix it.”  
  
Elyse stilled for a moment, her eyes wide in the dim light. “I don’t—I don’t know how.”   
  
“I learned how in school.” Years ago, in a lesson she had never once thought would be something she would use in her actual life. Then again, she’d be doing a lot of things lately that she never thought she would have to do. Letting out a shaky breath, she leaned her back against the wall. “I can tell you how, I just need you to do it.”  
  
Elyse took her arm, and Felicia couldn’t entirely bite back the hiss of pain. Elyse withdrew immediately. “Felicia, I can’t do this, I’m gonna make it worse—”  
  
“You won’t. I trust you.” Felicia breathed deep, trying to ease the tension in her body. This would go much easier if she could relax. “I need you to bring my arm over and behind my head.”  
  
Elyse hesitated a moment before taking the arm and gently beginning to maneuver it. Felicia grit her teeth against the pain, a thin sheen of sweat breaking over her face, but nodded for Elyse to keep going. As Elyse continued moving the arm, Felicia talked her through each motion. She let her eyes drift shut as she did, focusing on the comforting press of Elyse’s fingers against her skin. It was almost enough to block out the pain of her shoulder.  
  
Felicia gasped as the shoulder popped back into place. The pain immediately lessened and she was able to move her arm. Elyse kept her hands on Felicia’s arm, and for a moment the two looked into each others’ eyes. Muffled sounds from the party above filtered down into their cell, and something inside Felicia broke open. Overcome with silent sobs, she buried her face in Elyse’s shoulder. Elyse wrapped her arms around her and rubbed her back, and they both melted into the comfort of the embrace. 


	11. Forced to Watch

Maya stood in the cramped closet, peering through the dusty glass of the one-way mirror into the kitchen beyond. Every inch of her body was tensed, on high alert. Any moment now, Jackson was going to walk into that kitchen with Ella, and Maya was going to stay in this closet and say nothing.   
  
_She’s just going to come over for some coffee_ , Jackson has explained earlier that day, caressing Maya’s cheek with the flat of a knife. _She’s been so lonely, you know, ever since you went missing._ Maya said nothing, but she couldn’t stop the tear that rolled down her cheek. _Oh, don’t cry. At least you’ll get to see her again. Even if she won’t see you._ He brushed the tear from her face with a deceptive tenderness. _And I know you won’t make a sound, because if she starts to become too suspicious, she’ll just end up right here next to you._ He punctuated his point with a slice into her shoulder, shallow, sharp. A warning.   
  
And so Maya waited in the tiny closet, afraid to even breathe too loudly. She was going to stay perfectly still and silent, and watch as her sister and her captor had a coffee date together.  
  
When Ella walked into the kitchen, Maya had to stifle a sob. At first glance, she still looked the same as she had when Maya had last seen her—how long ago had it been? Days? Weeks? But she exuded a bone-deep weariness. Maya could see it in the lank dullness of her hair, the bags under her eyes. She couldn’t help but press herself closer to the window as Ella took a seat at the table.  
  
“Jackson, thank you so much for...for everything.” Ella’s voice was thin and tremulous in a way Maya had never heard.   
  
Jackson set two coffee cups on the table and took the seat across from Ella. Maya felt rage curl inside her at his carefully composed sympathetic expression and the artificial note of concern in his voice. “You’ve been dealing with so much, Ella. I want to help you any way I can.”  
  
“I just…” Ella wrapped trembling fingers around the mug, breathing in the steam. “I’m trying so hard to stay strong, but every day comes and goes with no news, every lead we have goes to a dead end, and _god_ , I just miss her so much.”   
  
“How long has it been?” Jackson’s voice was somber. As if he didn’t know exactly how many days he had been keeping Maya in his basement.   
  
“Six weeks.” Maya felt her blood run cold. She had lost track after the first few days. There were no windows in the basement, and Jackson’s visits were sporadic and unpredictable. But _six weeks_? A month and a half since she had felt sunshine on her skin, tasted food that wasn’t gruel, talked to anyone other than the monster in human skin that was her captor—  
  
The monster in human skin who was now reaching across the table to hold Ella’s hand. Ella began to sob, curling into herself and holding Jackson’s hand like a lifeline. Maya’s heart broke. Ella was her big sister, her rock. She had always been the one to get them out of any trouble they got into. Maya had never seen her looking so small and helpless.   
  
Abruptly, Ella stood from the table. She set her coffee cup down, ran a hand through her hair, scrubbed at the tears in her eyes. Maya froze as Ella approached her window, before she realized she was studying herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and red.  
  
“I feel like I’m falling apart,” Ella said. Jackson rose from the table and moved to stand behind her. Her voice shook, and as she stared into the mirror, Maya felt like she was staring into her soul. “I just don’t know how to be strong without her.”  
  
Jackson wrapped his arms around Ella from behind, and Maya wanted to throw herself at him and tear him apart. He was watching them in the mirror. _Watching me,_ Maya realized; even if he couldn’t actually see her, this look was meant for her. “You are so much stronger than you realize,” he said to Ella, slowly turning her around to face him. “I promise, we’ll find Maya. You’ll see her again before you know it.” Ella wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest. Jackson lifted his head so his gaze met Maya’s through the mirror, and he grinned. Then he drew his expression back to that careful concern, and he held Ella close, gently resting his chin on her head. Maya watched them through the glass, and her shoulders shook with silent sobs. 


	12. Humiliation

The party was dazzling, glittering, overwhelming. Shiloh had never seen so much _decadence_ —the sweeping marble floor, the sparkling chandelier, the panoramic view of the skyline from the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows. So this was how you lived when you had the entire city in your pocket.  
  
And Nerissa Cirillo did have the entire city in her pocket. A young socialite, founder of her own top-line fashion company, and head of the most notorious criminal syndicate in the county. It was an open secret among the wealthy of the city, of course—they had enough cash to keep her off their backs, and she had enough dirt on them to stop them from trying anything stupid against her. And to everyone else, Nerissa was a glamorous influencer, certainly not connected to the crime running rampant in the streets. She lived a life of enviable luxury, mingling with celebrities at ultra-exclusive parties.   
  
_I don’t belong here._ The thought weighed heavy on Shiloh’s mind as she made her way into the party, walking beside Nerissa with an unsteady grip on her arm. The outfit Nerissa had chosen for her—forced on her, really—was all wrong. The dress was too tight, the neckline too low, the heels too high.  
  
( _There’s no way I can walk in these,_ she’d said when she saw the shoes. And Nerissa had just trailed a finger along her cheek and replied, _Then you’ll just have to lean on my arm, won’t you?_ )  
  
By contrast, Nerissa exuded confidence, as she did at all times. She was a lioness on the prowl, and Shiloh wondered if this gala was more than a simple networking event. How many other people here were connected to Nerissa’s seedy underworld? Shiloh watched the faces in the crowd, primed to catch any hushed exchanges or meaningful glances, anything that might clue her into the social dynamics at play here. Intent as she was, she jumped at the tickle of Nerissa’s voice in her ear.   
  
“What are you looking for, little fox?” Her voice was a sultry whisper, her dark eyes shining. “Hoping you’ll find some fascinating tidbit for your next story?”   
  
Shiloh flushed, frustrated at how Nerissa always seemed to read her like an open book. She was right; Shiloh needed to find _something_ here she could use against Nerissa, anything that would make this party more than an evening of Shiloh being paraded around like arm candy.   
  
(Not that she could do anything about it; not as long as Nerissa knew where her family lived. But someday.)  
  
Nerissa made her way through the party, and Shiloh was forced to follow, clinging to her arm. She could feel eyes on them as they moved, considering her, picking apart every piece of who she was. Then Nerissa called out, “Oh, Charles! So lovely to see you,” and they stopped before an older man, elegant, with eyes like a hawk.   
  
Shiloh stared at his face, committing it to memory. Charles. She would remember him, and when her family was out of Nerissa’s grasp, she would take him down too.   
  
Charles’s gaze lingered on Shiloh for a moment, before turning to Nerissa. “Nerissa. Charmed, as always,” he said, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. “And where did you find this little morsel?”   
  
_He’s talking about me,_ Shiloh realized dimly. Nerissa wrapped a controlling arm around her and drawled, “Oh, she’s a reporter for the local rag, we met up for an interview and just really hit it off.” She squeezed Shiloh’s arm and Shiloh’s face burned. “She can’t keep her hands off me, to be honest.”   
  
(The interview was meant to be about Nerissa’s latest fashion line, but Shiloh _knew_ what Nerissa really did, and she pressed too hard, she just wanted something to show the world who this woman really was. And so when they were done, Nerissa _insisted_ on her chauffeur giving Shiloh a ride back home. Invited herself into Shiloh’s apartment; _you don’t mind if I stop in for a quick coffee, do you?_ Browsed the pictures hanging on Shiloh’s fridge; _Your little brother is so darling. He lives up in Amesbridge, right? I have so many good friends up there, you know._ And that was it.)  
  
(A part of Shiloh was ashamed at how easily she capitulated, now. But she didn’t see any way out.)  
  
“She’s adorable,” Charles said. Shiloh flushed with humiliation at the way they were talking about her like she was a pet, like she wasn’t even there.  
  
“Sweetling,” Nerissa purred, and Shiloh realized she was talking to her now. “Why don’t you tell Mister Abbot what you write about?”  
  
Shiloh licked her lips, swallowed down her anxiety. “I write—” _Whatever Nerissa tells me to, now._ “I write about fashion, or—or social events around the city, human interest stories...”  
  
“Fluff pieces,” he said with a condescending smile. “How nice.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be so patronizing, Charles,” Nerissa said, but she was smiling too. “She works very hard on them. It’s precious.”   
  
Shiloh grit her teeth as the conversation drifted to other topics and she was shut out completely. _I was going to be a journalist,_ she thought. _I was going to do something that_ mattered _. Now I’m your fucking lapdog._ But even as the shame coiled within her stomach, she had to push that thought away. _No. I’m no one’s._ Nerissa would slip up at some point, and when she did, Shiloh would be ready. Until then, she would smile and look pretty, write whatever fluff Nerissa wanted, keep her head down. And she would watch, and listen, and wait. 


	13. Burned

“Are you left- or right-handed, boy?”   
  
The woman crouched beside Kailo, lifting his head with a hand in his hair. It was still dripping from the countless times she had drowned him.  
  
“I, uh…” His voice was weak; he was caught off-guard by the question. “Both?”  
  
“Lucky you,” she said with a smile that made fear curl deep in his stomach. “I’m going to have to ruin _both_ your hands, then.”  
  
Before he could even begin to protest, she hoisted him up by his hands tied behind his back and began to walk him across the room. He tried to keep on his feet, stumbling and exhausted from the past several hours, and then his eyes focused and he saw where she was taking him.   
  
“No.” He gasped out the protest, bucking against her with the smallest reserve of energy he had left, his eyes locked on the brazier smoking in the corner of the room. “Please, no, _no,_ don’t, please—”  
  
The woman shoved him forward and he fell to his knees in front of the flame. He tried to scramble back, but she was already behind him, pressing him closer and closer to the fire. His damp clothes were steaming from the heat.  
  
“Is any of this jogging your memory?” She asked, pushing his face closer and closer to the brazier. His eyes watered from the smoke; the heat was already unbearable. She pressed him closer still. “Do you remember what you needed to tell me now?”  
  
“I don’t—” He coughed as smoke filled his lungs. “I swear, I don’t know!” _I can’t tell her, I can’t._  
  
“Shame.” He felt the cold bite of a knife at his hands, and panic flared in his mind before he realized she was cutting the ropes binding him. Before he could even pull his arms forward, the woman grabbed his wrists, pressing harsh fingers in where the skin had been rubbed raw.   
  
With her knees digging into the backs of his legs and her arm pinning his back, she took his wrist in one hand and slowly guided it to the fire. She’d put gloves on at some point, he realized dimly, thick protective ones. As she forced his hand to the flame, a small part of him thought, _at least I won’t burn where she’s holding me._  
  
Then he couldn’t think anything at all.   
  
The agony in his hand dwarfed everything that had come before. He screamed, thrashed against it, and all he could feel was the overwhelming burn, every nerve in his hand lighting up in pain. He couldn’t, he was going to die, he was—  
  
The woman released him and he immediately curled into himself, cradling his hand. It didn’t hurt any less. He sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut and refusing to look; he wasn’t ready to see what his hand looked like now. It couldn’t have been in the fire more than a few seconds. It felt like hours.  
  
The touch in his hair was gentle this time, soothing. He wasn’t soothed.  
  
“Shhh,” the woman whispered. “Let’s talk.”  
  
_I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. I can’t do that again. I’ll talk_. He stifled another sob and managed to find his voice. “I don’t...I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He didn’t know how he said it. He just knew, despite everything, he couldn’t give her anything.   
  
She said nothing, only took his other wrist in both hands. He was too weak to protest. He shut his eyes and felt the heat grow as his hand was moved to the fire. 


	14. Dehumanization

Felicia kneels on the hardwood floor of the sitting room, hands bound behind her back with soft rope. She knows she’ll be moved around, repositioned as the night goes on, but Volkan always likes for her to start like this. Her knees are already aching.   
  
This is the third time Volkan has had a guest over for dinner and entertainment. Tonight’s guest lounges on the couch, watching her with mild interest while Volkan goes to get his—his _supplies._ She looks at the guest as he takes a slow sip of his coffee, and wonders if he realizes she’s a person.  
  
Then she hears the squeak of shoes on the hardwood, and he’s standing right in front of her. She turns her head to the side, but he takes her chin in his hand and tilts her up to face him, not ungently.   
  
“He told me you’re a very talented healer,” the guest says ( _Browning,_ she thinks suddenly, _his name is Browning,_ and she needs to remember it for when she gets out of here).  
  
Swallowing, she meets his eyes. _Humanize yourself to him,_ she decides, and she is unable to keep a slight tremor out of her voice as she speaks. “I studied at the Healer’s College in Trisgate University for s-six years.”  
  
He considers her a moment. “That seems like a lot of schooling just to end up as someone’s plaything.”  
  
Her stomach plummets. Desperate, she pushes on, the words falling out of her. “Please, my name is Felicia...Felicia Haywood. I’m twenty-six. I have—” She catches her breath in a small shuddering sob. “I have _friends,_ I have a life, I have—”  
  
“Do you bruise easily?” The question cuts through her babbling like a knife. Startled, she pauses to collect herself, but he begins to pace around her.  
  
“I know we were going to try some knives on you,” he muses, talking to himself more than anything. “And I’m sure you look magnificent bleeding.” She can’t still the racing of her heart or the shaking of her shoulders as he passes behind her, trailing a hand along her back.   
  
Then he’s in front of her again, and he crouches down to eye level with her. “But when I see such...beautiful, unbroken skin,” and he traces his hand up her shoulder, along her collarbone, “I just...I want to see every inch of it covered in bruises.” She shuts her eyes, but she can’t shut out the feeling of him pressing fingers into her skin, harder, harder. “Something like you was just made to be broken, again and again.”   
  
The creak of the door opening interrupts whatever he was going to say next, and Felicia opens her eyes to see Volkan striding into the room with a large briefcase. Browning runs a thumb over her skin one last time before rising to join Volkan in looking through the case of tools. “You’ve got something really remarkable over there,” he says as he pulls a knife from the case, casually examines its edge. “I’m looking forward to seeing her fall apart for us.” Felicia lowers her eyes, stifles a sob, and waits for them to decide how they’re going to hurt her first. 


End file.
